“Any handling instructions?” she asked.
Itai nodded and handed her his phone. “Read this. Describes everything you need to know.”
Jet scanned the instructions as Itai cranked the wheel, executed a three-point turn, and headed back to the highway. She finished by the time they reached the road, and passed the phone back to him. “Simple enough. And they thoughtfully provided enough to kill a platoon.”
He scowled, his expression stony. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Chapter 43
Itai directed the old car off the highway onto a tributary that ran into the hills, the suspension creaking as it lumbered higher. The pavement eventually ran out at a small village that could have been frozen in time from centuries earlier, and they found themselves bouncing along a dirt road that twisted along the banks of a rushing stream. An occasional cow by the water raised its head as they drove by.
The few pedestrians and bicycle riders thinned as they climbed in altitude, and the green scrub was gradually replaced by conifers and dense vegetation. They reached a fork in the road and Itai consulted his cell again, muttering a complaint over the weak signal. The little device blinked and a download icon displayed, indicating that he had an incoming message, and he slowed to a crawl as he waited for it to finish, wary of losing reception at the worst possible time.
The phone chimed softly and he stopped the car to see what had arrived. He scrolled through several images and then turned to Jet, who was eyeing him expectantly.
“We got sat imagery of the lodge. Including thermal on a time lapse. The analysts at HQ have created a rough blueprint of the house’s layout based on the roofline and the hot spots.”
“How many guards?”
“We can review it once we’re further along. Right now, I need to figure out where exactly we are and how to get to where the watcher is without drawing anyone’s attention.”
“You could try asking him.”
“There’s no cell coverage that far in the mountains.”
“Ah.”
He consulted the phone and pointed through the window at the split in the road. “The left is the continuation of this route. To the right is an old mining road. Not sure how bad it gets further up.”
“So we take the main road?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not, much as I’d like to. If they’ve got any security in place, it would be on that approach. Better to chance the mining road and walk the final stretch if necessary.”
“Anything would be better than the beating we’re taking in this thing,” she said.
“I won’t take your slights about my car personally. I understand it’s all in jest.”
“How far are we from the lodge now?”
“Maybe…four, five kilometers.”
“Won’t we throw up a dust trail they’ll see?”
“It’s a concern. But my hunch is the road will peter out before we’re in danger of doing so.”
Itai twisted the wheel right, and the heavy old vehicle resumed its labor, the mining road barely passable in places where runoff had carved deep channels across it. They reached a wooden bridge that crossed the stream, and both got out of the car to inspect it.
“Think it’ll support the weight?” Itai asked.
Jet moved to the edge of the bank and peered underneath the wood planks. “It should. Doesn’t look like it’s in too bad a condition. Only one way to know for sure.”
“It’s our way out, too. Don’t forget that.”
She shrugged. “Nothing ventured. You drive across and I’ll wait on the other side. Less weight.”
Itai gave her a dark look and trod back to the car. Jet picked her way across the bridge, noting that some of the planks appeared questionable up close, and then Itai was rolling slowly over the span. The structure creaked ominously and sagged near the middle. Jet was getting ready to call out a warning to him when he goosed the gas and the car accelerated the rest of the way. It bounced off the end near her and skidded to a stop where she stood.
“I was going to say might want to go faster,” she said, climbing in.
“I’ll remember that for the trip back.”
They made it another kilometer and then the track narrowed to the point where it was impassible; the side had eroded away, the rocks that had supported it at one time washed down the side of a ravine. Itai turned the car around with Jet’s guidance and parked it in a wider area, knee deep in grass. They retrieved their weapons and gear and set off on foot. The smooth soles of Itai’s loafers slipped on the loose gravel as they walked, slowing their progress. The older man’s breath sounded heavy as they followed the road higher, and they were forced to pause numerous times so he could catch his wind.
“How are you going to find the watcher?” she asked at one of their stops.
“He was under instructions to stay near the road. The map shows this one running fairly close to the property, so once we can see it, we’ll seek him out.”
“Who is he?”
“A grad student that I’ve used a few times to help on sensitive matters. As you’ve probably surmised, Baku isn’t New York, so the resources at my disposal are limited. He’s a good man, though, Israeli, named Harmon. Smart, discreet. A wannabe spy who thrives on these adventures.”
“So an amateur with no training,” Jet said, her tone indicating what she thought of that.
“He doesn’t need much to watch a house and count guards, does he?”
“Assuming he didn’t get captured on the road.” She shrugged. “Hopefully he wore something dark or green, because otherwise we may be walking into an ambush.”
“They have no reason to suspect anyone’s got them under surveillance.”
“Other than the president’s execution by parties unknown while surrounded by his security team, you mean.”
An hour passed, and then another. The sun was sinking into the mountains when they reached the lodge, the rich aroma of wood smoke drifting on the breeze from a gray curl floating from its stone chimney. They stayed low and made their way toward the main road, pushing branches from their path as they forged a trail.
They approached a rise near the road, and Jet grabbed Itai’s arm to stop him, her pistol in hand.
“What?” he whispered.
She motioned with the gun. “I see a motorcycle.”
“That would be Harmon.”
Jet moved toward the bike, Itai trailing her. As they neared it, a tall, gangly young man with a hipster beard stepped from behind a tree, his expression alarmed until he spotted Itai behind Jet. His face broke into a smile and he took several steps toward them.
“Hey. You made it,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Itai said. “This is…Katya. Katya, Harmon.”
Jet nodded, her eyes already scanning the road and the house. “Nice to meet you. How many guards, and what shift are they following?”
Harmon looked to Itai, who nodded reassurance.
“Um, I count eight, working, I think, eight-hour shifts.”
“You think?” She glared at Itai. “Eight total, or eight each shift?”
“Oh, sorry. Eight at a time. Three walk the perimeter, and the others stay put.” He extended his spyglasses to Jet. “You can see them through my binoculars.”
She took the glasses from him. “Where’s the security staying? In one of the outbuildings or the main house?”
“Appears to be evenly split. Some are over by that garage, in the bungalow, and the rest in the main lodge.”
“Anyone come or go since you’ve been here?” Itai asked.
“One van came up the road and dropped off a few…women. Picked up three as well.”
“How many is a few?” Jet asked.
“Four. Young, maybe…in their late teens.”
Jet gave a contemptuous snort. “There’s your entertainment committee. No point in being the most powerful man in the country if you can’t have a little fun, right?”
Itai’s face
grew longer. “I wouldn’t know.”
She returned her attention to Harmon. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Not really. Oh, they changed their shift this morning at eight, so if I’m right about the eight hours, they should be changing again at four.”
Jet nodded and held the binoculars up. “Can I keep these?”
“Uh, sure…” Harmon said, appearing confused.
Itai approached the younger man and had a few words with him. Harmon nodded, but didn’t look happy. He glanced at Jet and tried a smile. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise. Might want to push your bike until you’re a kilometer away so the engine doesn’t alert anyone.”
Harmon’s expression shifted to annoyed. “I know that. I’m not stupid.”
Jet didn’t comment. How the young man felt about his duty being cut short was of no concern to her. She walked toward the rise while Itai spoke to Harmon in a low tone, and then the young man moved to the motorcycle and began pushing it toward the main road. Jet snapped her fingers and he looked back at her.
“You should go down the other way – there’s a mining road in that direction that connects to the main one a few klicks away.”
The station chief nodded agreement. Harmon sighed audibly, swung the bike around, and rolled it into the brush without another word.
Jet resumed studying the lodge with the binoculars. Itai joined her and sat down with a grimace.
“I’m too old for the field.”
“Four o’clock’s coming up soon. If Harmon was right, then the right time for me to make my attempt is around eleven.”
Itai nodded. “Sure. Toward the end of the shift, when they’re more likely to be tired or distracted.”
Four o’clock arrived, and the guards were indeed replaced by a new crop. She followed them with the glasses until three disappeared into the bungalow and the other into the house.
She lowered the binoculars. “Let’s see what HQ sent. It better be good, because right now that place is a black box.”
Itai swiped the screen and opened the downloaded images, and then scanned through them as Jet looked on. “This is an aerial shot of the grounds, as you can see. There are the vehicles, the house, the bungalow and garage. Next, you can see the thermal image – where the heat signatures are gathered. Finally, this is a best-guess blueprint of the layout of the house based on the roof, the orientation, and so on.”
Jet studied the final image for several long moments. “How do they know the bedrooms are upstairs?”
Itai shrugged. “That’s the preferred way of building them here, I guess. And the thermals align with that. This was created using time lapse from last night, so you can see there are only a couple of rooms that only have a single signature. The target is in one of those. Likely this smaller suite,” he said, tapping the screen gently and zooming in.
“More than one in that first set of frames,” she observed.
“That was probably last night’s company.”
Jet nodded. “If that’s correct, I need to circle around and get a look at the other side of the building. See what entry points there are.”
Itai nodded. “You want me to go with you?”
She shook her head. “No. Less chance of being spotted with only one of us. I’ll be back when I’m back.” Jet looked overhead, where gathering clouds were turning the sky gray. “Hopefully those will stick around and block any moonlight.” She sniffed at the air. “If we’re really lucky, it’ll rain.”
“Great,” Itai said without enthusiasm.
“Stay put,” Jet whispered, and then took off at a fast pace toward the mining road, pistol in one hand and binoculars in the other, teeth clenched as she covered ground with the grace of a jungle cat.
Chapter 44
Amit Mendel swiped his security card through a scanner as he exited the Mossad’s headquarters, and the steel and bulletproof glass doors slid open. The side entry he was using was one of three, and the guard watched him from behind the high counter without blinking, Amit’s coming and going at odd hours unremarkable given the type of work that went on below ground.
Mendel strode to his car, a nondescript two-door coupe, and started the engine after placing his briefcase on the passenger seat. He backed out of his slot and drove to the main gate, the signage identifying the huge building behind him as a glass factory, and waited as another guard checked his license plate against those that had entered and then directed Mendel to swipe his card again to open the heavy iron plate that served as a barrier against inquisitive eyes.
Mendel was bone tired, having been working since the prior evening, and needed sleep – a luxury he’d trained himself to do without for long stretches if necessary. He turned onto the plant access road and drove toward his apartment in downtown Tel Aviv, where he lived alone. Family wasn’t an option with the hours he kept and the juncture he was at in his professional career. Maybe when he was in his forties, he mused absently, knowing that the likelihood had just grown far less likely after the operation in Baku went sideways on him.
He forced himself to breathe deeply and remain calm, even as his mind replayed the events of the last twenty-four hours and the sudden upset in Azerbaijan. The director had been more guarded than usual in the last meetings, obviously suspicious of everyone on the committee that had appointed Leah to be Jet’s control, and that didn’t bode well for Mendel. Even though it had been structured as a group decision, if the agency dug deep enough, they’d eventually piece together the connection between Leah and him, and that would be sufficient to interrogate him until he cracked.
Mendel swore softly as a light turned red. It had seemed so simple: take a few million dollars in a Cayman account, switch the target from the president’s double to the man himself, and terminate the hitter once the job was done. Easiest money he would ever make. A half million to Leah to do the heavy lifting, and two and a half for himself, added to the million he’d already amassed helping the Russians with information when they asked. It had seemed like a lock until the assassin had turned the tables on Leah. He hadn’t foreseen that. Wouldn’t have believed it possible, given her chops.
“What’s done is done,” he murmured. The light turned green and he gave the car gas, nobody on the road at that time in the desolate industrial area.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at his building and pulled into the underground garage. He parked and rushed to the elevator. The clock was working against him, and the less time he spent in his apartment, the better. He’d taken to keeping a bug-out bag filled with everything he would require to vanish since his field days, and the habit had stuck with him even now, when he piloted a desk. It would take him no time to grab it and his alternative IDs and head for a private airstrip where a prop plane was already waiting to spirit him to Port Said, Egypt, where he would drop off the face of the earth.
He’d debated staying in place and bluffing his way through any questioning, but his gut told him not to chance it. The risk of the director’s people seeing through his story was high, and even if there was plausible deniability working for him, he didn’t trust the director to give him the benefit of the doubt. No, the damage done by Leah failing to execute the assassin was terminal, and it was time to fold up his tent and head for greener pastures – maybe open a little bar in the Caribbean, someplace like Belize or Roatán, where he could grow his hair long and wear flip-flops and forget his past life. He certainly had enough to make that dream come true, if not to live large in a first world country indefinitely.
His second passport was top quality and would pass any scrutiny. Swiss, it identified him as Hans Gerber, a banker two years younger than his actual age, his hair color in the photo slightly darker than it was now, the goatee in the snap the most noteworthy element. That would get him to the Caymans, and from there, the sky was the limit. The Mossad wouldn’t know where he’d gone, and if he kept his profile low, he’d be just another face in the crowd.
Mendel felt no g
uilt, either for his actions or abandoning his career. He didn’t view his repurposing the assassin as anything but a smart business decision. The sociopathology that enabled him to make dispassionate decisions for his country’s sake had come in handy in rationalizing his treason: if he hadn’t agreed to go on the Russian payroll, someone else would have. He played in a dirty game where there were no rules, and he was under no illusions about how the world worked. When the opportunity to make real, serious money had arisen, he’d jumped at the chance, understanding that naïve ideals like patriotism or loyalty were for fools.
The elevator door slid wide at his floor and he stepped into the hall, his face outwardly at peace despite his churning thoughts. He moved to his door and unlocked it, and only a trace of regret assailed him at the sight of his furnishings when he turned the lights on. Those were possessions, of which he could get more. His life was another matter.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from his bathroom, his hair darker, his suit replaced by a short-sleeved navy blue resort shirt and a pair of crème linen slacks. A blue blazer over one shoulder completed his outfit – that of a privileged banker on vacation.
He took a final look around the apartment and walked to his laptop computer, switched it off and unplugged it from its thirty-two-inch monitor, and slipped it and the power cord into his bag. Satisfied that he’d gotten everything he needed, he moved to the door and switched off the lights, the habitual frugality ingrained.
The elevator ride to the basement garage seemed to take forever, and he heaved a sigh of relief when the conveyance slowed and the doors slipped open. His shoes clicked on the cement as he walked to his car, the gloom of the garage echoing with the sound. He was nearly to his slot when a familiar voice called out from the shadows.
“Going somewhere?” the director asked.
Mendel’s shoulders slumped and he stopped, but he didn’t turn around. There was no response he could offer. It was over.
Unless.
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